Vermin watched in silence as the ground swallowed her work. Sometimes, Vermin deliberately left her art unfinished. 

This was not one of those times. 

Her dungeon, Vermin felt, lived and breathed. It had taste. And it had good taste. In fact, she would swear that it had her taste. It never speaks. 

It only judges, and consumes, and devours, and rejects, wordlessly, indifferently, fairly, cruelly, unilater-. 

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Vermin calmed herself. 

She could always tell when the dungeon would ignore her work. It starts off as a sense of unease as its features begin to form under her fingers, but the discomfort intensified as the cycle draws to close until by the time it ends, she already has a premonition of the sentence.

The cycle just ended before she was ready. If she had more time, Vermin knew that she could convince the dungeon. But, then again, it was right. As it was, Vermin’s work this time was inadequate. Incomplete. She only had herself to blame. 

Sickly green arced through the air, and smashed into the earth.

Too late, Vermin. It’s already gone. You don’t even have the right to destroy your own work, Vermin, you worthless piece of–

Vermin calmed herself.

She would try again next cycle.